


One Thing

by Skyzuki



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Suicide, sorry - Freeform, this is just really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: Jord kisses him with a reverence that makes him forget everything else, if only for a moment.





	One Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! Here I am writing a fic for a fandom I said I'd never write for simply bc the source material is so beautifully written that I'd tarnish it with my bullshit. I just really love Aimeric.   
> This is a Captive Prince fic, so the uncomfy aspects of Captive Prince may find their way into this fic, keep that in mind.   
> The Regent is mentioned, as well as his involvement with Aimeric but it is not graphic and it does not go into any explicit detail.   
> My mom follows this account and I told her specifically not to read this, but she might anyway. Hi mom.

He is freshly nineteen when he leaves Fortaine to fight with the Prince’s men.

 _Just this one thing_.

He is freshly nineteen when he gets punched in the face by stranger for the first time.

Nose bloodied, vision blurred, ears ringing. He finds himself with his back against the wall, halfway slid down its surface.

The confrontation may have worsened if not for the brutish Akielon slave; who bodily interfered, blocking the Regent’s soldiers from striking another blow.

His mind whirls at the thought of being saved by an Akielon, except that it wasn’t quite salvation. Aimeric had the situation under control. Probably.

 _Just this one thing,_ he tells himself again and again.

_He’ll be so proud._

*

It is when he witnesses the Prince break Govart with not so much as a second thought, that Aimeric realizes that this plan may not be as easy as he thought.

*

The new Captain catches his eye right away.

There is maybe ten years between them, he is rugged in a way that Aimeric shamelessly finds handsome, and he seems to notice hard work.

So, Aimeric puts in hard work.

 He flatters the Captain, he sometimes joins the Prince’s guard around the fire, he works himself into exhaustion nearly every night.

He still partakes in the odd fight now and again, sometimes earning himself a bruised cheek or split lip.

He likes the way that the Captain’s gaze lingers on the mottled skin, with a bit of compassion and chastisement. Aimeric is an innocent, in his mind; a devoted youth, ready to defend the Prince’s honor, no matter the consequences.

*

He senses the Captain’s eyes on him more frequently with every passing day.

*

The flattery, the acknowledgment, and the casual flirting eventually turn into something else.

Their first kiss, when it happens, is just as Aimeric hoped it would be.

The Captain ( _Jord,_ Aimeric corrects himself. _his name is Jord)_ is enthusiastic, a hand coming up to grip Aimeric’s shoulder right away.

He wonders how long it’s been since Jord last kissed anyone; and finds himself hit with a pang of jealousy at the idea that he may have more dalliances on the side.

The kiss deepens in a way that literally causes Aimeric to forget to breathe, and he is mildly shocked when Jord pushes him away. They stand at an arm’s length, both panting and a bit dazed.

_No, no, no. This was going so well._

“I don’t understand—”

Instead of rejection, he is offered a place in Jord’s tent for the night. Victory thrums in his chest, even if seducing the Captain is a small step in a larger plan. He is on the right track, at least.

*

Jord kisses him with a reverence that makes him forget everything else, if only for a moment.

Their first night together is achingly slow; the Captain pausing every few moments to assure that everything is still alright. He touches Aimeric gently, as if the slightest pressure would cause him to shatter.

Everything is so foreign that it almost hurts to think about. Jord reaches to brush a stray curl from Aimeric’s eyes and he finds himself nuzzling into the touch, unable to resist the softness of it.

When they lay down to sleep, Jord unconsciously slings an arm over Aimeric’s narrow waist; pulling him snug against his chest, stubbled jaw scratching at the exposed skin of Aimeric’s nape.

Aimeric realizes that this is no longer just an act.

The Regent’s instructions were clear, and this somehow feels like a breach of orders.

*

He kills Orlant with his own blade.

The chaos that ensued afterward did not allow him the chance to process this fact until now.

When the pyres are built and set alight, he pushes toward the outskirts of camp. He vomits on the ground once he is out of view. Leaning against the base of a tree, he brushes the sweat matted curls from his face and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

The sudden contact on his lower back causes him to startle.

He whips around to find Jord, gazing at him with a strange mix of sadness, worry, and compassion.

“After the first few times, you stop throwing up.” He says, absurdly.

“I’m fine,” Aimeric insists, although it is very clear that he is not. “I’m fine. I just, I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ll be fine.”

There is a silence, then. Jord’s gaze settles elsewhere.

“He was a traitor.” Jord mutters, and suddenly Aimeric feels even sicker than before.

_A traitor._

 “Would you have him killed for that?”

_Would you have me killed, when the time comes?_

Jord looks at him again, confused.

 _“_ He was your friend.” Aimeric’s chest aches.

_I am your friend._

Silence, again. Aimeric can hear his own heartbeat.

“I’m glad you’re alright. I— was worried, for a moment.” Jord mutters softly, hand coming up to cup Aimeric’s flushed cheek. He allows himself to be drawn into Jord’s broad chest, a comforting hand stroking along the length of his back.

“Kiss me.” Is all Aimeric can say when the fantasy begins to feel too real.

To his surprise, Jord kisses him. Though Aimeric is hardly beautiful in his current state; overheated, exhausted, streaked with dirt and soot and drying blood. He can still vaguely feel the acidity of bile in his throat.

Despite this, Jord kisses him without a second thought. As though this is the most logical course of action. As though nothing else matters.

(Later, Jord takes him with his back pressed against the tree. It is not the amorous kind of lovemaking; it is desperate, and emotional, and melancholy. It is something that Aimeric has never experienced with anyone at any time in his life. For some unexplained reason, he finds that his eyes are wet, and he tells himself that this is part of the façade as well.)

*

When he faces the Prince at Hallay, he does not look at Jord.

Their relationship was always destined to end this way, Aimeric knew that.

He feels the guilt like a sword to his stomach when he realizes that Jord did not.

 _(“Will you take me to Fortaine, when this is over?”_ The Captain had asked once, sounding sated and gazing at him with obvious fondness.

“ _Maybe.”_ Aimeric had answered, running his index finger down the plane of Jord’s chest, ready to change the subject.)

He knows the expression that Jord is wearing now, he doesn’t even have to look.

Betrayal.

_He was a traitor._

Aimeric tries his hardest not to think about it. Any of it.

*

Despite everything, Jord is the one who rescues him, yet again.

His undershirt is half unlaced, nearly hanging completely off of a shoulder. The pale skin of his neck and clavicle exposed to the men surrounding him.

For the first time in his life, the attention is not wanted.

He is angry, possibly more than ever before. He is angry at himself, he is angry at the men, he is angry at the Prince, he is angry at the Regent, but mostly, he is angry at Jord.

Stupid, trusting, emotional Jord; who comes into the room and commands the men to stop.

But Jord is no longer their Captain, and they have no reason to obey him.

A hand on his thigh, a hand on his belly, a hand on the back of his neck.

He feels sick, and the feeling only worsens when Jord leaves him.

*

The guards drag him to his feet, roughly, prodding him forward.

He is led to a stone tower, the crisp night wind ruffling his disordered curls. He is more than prepared to face the Prince. No matter how icy or untouchable Laurent appeared; he was just a young man with an agenda of his own. There was no reason to fear him.

His defiant exterior shattered when he breached the tower’s doorway, making dead eye contact with Jord.

“No.” Was all he could say before his guards shoved him inside, roughly.

*

He repeats practiced words.

“My father will crush you,” he says “I’m glad I did what I did.”

The crack of the goblet against his cheek is something he did not quite expect.

He lets out an unconscious cry of pain, head snapped to the side, the familiar tang of blood filling his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Jord lurching forward, only to be immediately halted by the Akeilon.

“You can hit me as much as you like.” He says, not really meaning it. His ears are still ringing from the blow.

And then Jord pushes forward and defends him.

“He’s scared,” he says, “he’s just a boy.”

And Aimeric is convinced that Jord is either the stupidest man alive, or the most loyal.

*

He does not expect Laurent to figure out the connection between him and the Regent.

Aimeric was just thirteen when it all began; voice not quite broken, face soft with the freshness of boyhood, eyes aglow with mischief and curiosity.

A fourth son, the youngest, his father barely spared him the time of day. His mother, loving as she was, could only provide so much. She discouraged him from fighting, even when he won.

When the Regent came to visit Fortaine, he was taken with Aimeric from the moment he saw him.

_Or, so he said._

The Regent paid him compliments—the first true compliments of his life. Surely, this was a man who understood the virtue of hard work.

The Regent loved him, Aimeric was sure of it.

His father certainly wouldn’t allow Aimeric to fraternize with anyone dangerous. He was the youngest son, after all.

Any protests that Aimeric had were easily dismissed by the simple fact that the was the _Regent,_ and the Regent could have whatever he wanted.

The Regent loved him. He wouldn’t have kept returning otherwise.

They were to be together, Aimeric was to see the palace for the first time, to be amongst the luxury and opulence of his court.

He just had to do this one thing.

*

The sobs wrack his body so painfully that he is sure that he is going to be sick.

At first, he doesn’t understand why exactly he’s crying; and then it hits him.

_Jord is the only true man I have ever known._

It would have been so easy to forfeit the plan, none of this would have happened.

He realizes in this moment that Regent is not going to come rescue him. He never was.

Aimeric was nothing more than a pawn. All his life, that’s all he ever was.

“Get Aimeric out of here.” Someone says (he cannot discern who it is, everything is foggy).

The guards lash his arms behind his back once more, facing less of a struggle now.

He peeks over one of their shoulders to steal a last glance at Jord, who is saying something to the Prince.

*

He isn’t sure what exactly he is trying to accomplish. He could leap from the windowsill, perhaps. He could try to escape, though the effort would be futile.

 Mainly, though, he just needs to hit something.

After a few attempts, the corner of the window finally shatters under the impact of his fist. The pain is not immediate; neither is the steady stream of blood that flows down the fine skin of his forearm, darkening the fabric of his undershirt. When he looks down, he finds tiny bits of glass protruding from the flesh of his hand, which almost causes him to be sick.

Larger pieces of glass are scattered around his feet, reflecting light from outside. He bends to retrieve one of the more jagged shards from the carpet, and the sharp edge slices easily into the pad of one of his fingers.

He has an idea, then.

*

The quill will not stop shaking. Neither will his bloodied hand.

He has so many words that need to be written.

The thoughts swim in his mind, muddled and deafening. When the news spreads, what will his mother say? His father? His brothers? The Regent?

He stops himself there, chest heaving with ragged breaths and sobs that he feels from a hazy distance.

In the end; only three words claw their way onto the sheet of parchment.

_“I’m sorry, Jord.”_

*

The stark realization that he is dying comes too late.

The weight of his mistakes and of his betrayal hit him too late.

 _Jord_ , he thinks, fingers curling weakly around the bloodied parchment.

His eyes slip closed without his permission. Each breath hurts more than the last, and there is a sharp ringing in his ears.

_In another life, maybe._

And suddenly, the pain stops.


End file.
